


amazing electronic sort of band that uses a lot of spoken word and hip-hop

by kitbuckle



Series: In which Stiles finds other cool bands [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fanfiction of Fanfiction, M/M, Multi, PCtS B-Side, appearances by various irl bands, band au, bonnaroo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7873171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitbuckle/pseuds/kitbuckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with spoken word poetry.</p>
<p>Stiles and his band are standing in the back, barely under the shade of the tent, Lydia sitting on Derek’s shoulders so she can see. Stiles is speechless. He thinks he hears Scott whisper, “holy shit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	amazing electronic sort of band that uses a lot of spoken word and hip-hop

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Play Crack the Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/989786) by [WeAreTheCyclones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheCyclones/pseuds/WeAreTheCyclones). 



> The final installment! Out of the three, I feel like this one needs the context of PCtS the least, but as always, the experience of this fic would be enriched by first experiencing Play Crack the Sky.

They get the call when Scott’s hosting a post-Annuals-tour party in LA. Stiles has a whiskey in one hand, Derek’s neck in the other, and Lydia in his lap. He’s very close to making out with Derek, despite the indie band of the moment talking with Lydia about the different labels they’ve met and worked with. Kira had sent them over, Stiles knows, but he can’t remember anything else about them. He’s heard their music on the radio—it’s always on the radio—but it didn’t stick. He can’t even remember their names.

He can, however, remember the way Derek felt under his hands this morning. He can remember the softness of Derek’s skin, the color of it when Stiles sucks a mark, the way Derek’s abs flutter delicately when Stiles uses his mouth. Stiles remembers all those things, and that’s why he’s about to lick Derek’s neck behind Lydia’s back when Allison appears. She’s dragging Scott behind her, and Kira’s behind Scott.

“Excuse me, boys,” Allison tells the indie band. “I need to talk to my band.”

The guys move off, Allison moves in, and Stiles takes another sip of whiskey to keep from putting his mouth on Derek. Allison’s wearing her Manager Face.

“Pay attention, kids,” she says. “I just got a call from Bonnaroo.”

“Are they already booking for next year?” Lydia asks. “It just started today.”

“That’d be cool,” Scott says. “Fucking Paul McCartney played Bonnaroo.”

“Doubt we’re headliner material, though,” Derek says.

“Doubt again,” says Kira. “Bastille was booked to play the main stage tomorrow night, but Dan went and broke his leg and hand in a skating accident. They can’t perform. Bonnaroo wants to know if you can.”

-

Bonnaroo is held every summer in the damp southeastern corner of Tennessee. Stiles isn’t quite sure how, but they get all the equipment packed up and checked onto a flight to Nashville early the next morning.

Allison tries to brief them. Several times. The venue names make Stiles’ whiskey-buzzing mind spin: Which Stage, What Stage, This Tent, That Tent, The Other Tent. It makes _no sense_ and at the same time _all the sense in the world_. Stiles is just waiting for an opportunity to go “Who’s On First” with it all. Maybe it’ll distract him from the acid anxiety in his throat.

“Right,” Allison says on the bus from Nashville (with only an hour between them and tens of thousands of people who _don’t actually want to see them_ ), “Bastille was Friday’s headliner, so the venue is What Stage.”

Stiles grins at Scott. “Which stage?”

“No,” says Allison, “What Stage.”

Scott is trying very hard _not_ to grin. “I thought we were gonna be in that tent.”

Lydia’s whipping a site map from her purse—nobody is surprised. “You mean This Tent?” she asks, pointing.

“No, the other tent,” says Scott. Derek’s hand leaves Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles just _knows_ it’s now pinching the bridge of Derek’s nose.

“Children,” Allison sighs, tired in a fond way.

“So which stage are we playing?” Stiles asks.

“What Stage!”

“I think it’s ‘which’, actually, babe,” Scott says.

Allison narrows her eyes at him. “I will break your teeth,” she says.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Derek says, “Technically, ‘which stage’ is correct.”

“Not if you’re booked to play at What Stage,” Allison says. She’s seething, but there’s a glint in her eye that tells Stiles she’s enjoying herself. “And you’re replacing an act that _tens of thousands_ of people paid _hundreds of dollars_ to see.”

And boom, there’s the anxiety again.

“Now,” says Allison, her tone gentler, “What Stage is absolutely huge for the equipment we brought, so it’s gonna be a slightly different gig than you’re used to. The rep I spoke with said this has happened before, and the audience is very forgiving.”

“Bonnaroo ’13,” Lydia says. “Mumford & Sons had to cancel because their bassist had a blood clot. They got Jack Johnson instead, and everyone was cool with it.”

Stiles remembers that week clearly. The four of them had spent most of their savings on flights and a rental van and camping supplies. The Paul McCartney set is still in Stiles’ Top Five of shows he’s ever attended. Dude had moves.

“I think we should play it like we know we’re not their first choice,” Stiles says. “Like, acknowledge it—respect it. Not play it off like just some other set.”

Derek frowns to himself, which tell Stiles that he’s thinking. “This isn’t necessarily the kind of audience that will know every single one of our songs,” he says.

“So we have fun with it,” says Lydia. “Play what we want to play. If we have fun, they will.”

Derek’s nodding. “We should still play some greatest hits, though,” he says.

“And hey, some covers,” says Scott. “Say My Name would be fun.”

Stiles ruffles Scott’s hair. Ever since Europe, the tour they got Derek back, Say My Name has been kind of a sacred song for them: part therapeutic, part nostalgic, part reminder of how fucking special this thing is. The ruffle turns into frantic tapping as Stiles gets an idea.

“Dude dude dude, you remember that thing Jack Johnson did when he—”

“The thing when he— _yeah_ —oh dude, do you think we could—”

“Do you still know the—”

“Not all of it, but we could stick it with—”

“Dude, _yes_.”

Calloused fingers wraps around Stiles’ mouth. “Dude, what.” Derek says dryly. Stiles grins and licks Derek’s hand. Derek makes an unimpressed face. “It’s gonna stay there until you’re ready to talk in complete sentences.”

Lydia sighs her most put-upon sigh. “If I interpreted them correctly, I’m pretty sure—”

“Oh, me too,” Derek says. “It’s just important for them to use their words.” Stiles knows from Derek’s smirk that he’s just being a dick about it.

“Children,” Allison tells the bus’s roof. “I manage children.”

-

Historically, Stiles knows, Bonnaroo has attracted between seventy and a hundred thousand attendees since its opening year in 2002. The grounds are humid, muddy, colorful with graffiti, and teeming with people. _All_ the people. Hippies, hipsters, frat boys, toddlers, adults, people in swimsuits, people in jeans, drunk people, high people, people who clearly haven’t used the eight-dollar-per-use showers and people who have. Stiles only glimpses them between gaps in the stages and other behind-the-scenes locales, but he loves them. He loves them _all_.

They’re also giving him wobbly feelings in his stomach and legs. He’s shaking. He barely registers the trek to What Stage, helps cart the equipment on autopilot. The BonnaRep (seriously, that’s what her lanyard says) that’s leading them around is Patty or Penny or Peggy and she’s telling them they’re welcome to stay for the last two days of the festival, but Stiles’ head is swimming and he doesn’t catch much more than that. He focuses on lifting and walking and trying not to look as nervous as he is.

When they get all the equipment to What Stage and into the hands of capable and adaptable Bonnaroo techies, Derek drags him to the wings so they can watch the act. What Stage is Bonnaroo’s main stage, so this is where they put all the famous shit. (Or so Derek says into his ear, walking close enough behind for Stiles to feel his body heat, even in the summer air.)

They reach the wings, and the act is Hozier. Stiles barely has time to process this before Derek is plastered to Stiles’ back. Derek’s arms belt around Stiles’ waist and chest, and Derek sings into Stiles’ ear, “ _No masters or kings when the ritual begins, there is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin_.”

Derek mouths at Stiles’ neck while Hozier sings, “ _In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene, only then I am human, only then I am clean_.”

“A-fucking-men,” Stiles breathes. There’s really no other way to react to Derek’s teeth digging carefully into the tense, aching muscle at the base of Stiles’ neck. “Please tell me we have time to fuck before the end of his set.”

Derek hums thoughtfully, lapping and sucking at the bite mark. “Don’t know about fucking, but we could probably do something else if we find somewhere.”

“Good,” Stiles says. He grabs Derek’s (muscled sexy veined) forearm and leads him away. “I’m gonna blow your brains out through your dick.”

Derek groans. “I’m a little bit ashamed that I find that sentence arousing.”

-

They don’t start their set with a song the way the usually do. Instead, Stiles says, “What’s up, Bonnaroo?” and the sea of humanity screams a hello. “So, we are not Bastille.”

“Sorry,” Derek says.

“But, uh, we are absolutely honored to be here,” says Stiles, “And we’re down to have some fun tonight if you are.” Some of the thousands get it and start roaring. He asks, “You ready?” and the rest join in.

The set goes well. They do the most well-known songs from each album, a few more from Annuals. They cover “Say My Name” and “Since U Been Gone”, which gets the whole crowd jumping. They even cover “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, and for the story time in the middle Scott leads the telling of the Great Goat Escapade of Ninth Grade. Scott, God love him, is not the best storyteller, and the story ends before the music break does, so Derek comes up with, “Hey Stiles, remember that time we came out by eating face on stage?” The crowd roars, and Stiles smiles so hard that he genuinely thinks it’ll split his head in half. The look in Derek’s eyes makes Stiles feel like his _marrow_ is melting.

Three quarters of the way through the set, they do The Thing. The Jack Johnson Thing. For Bonnaroo ’13, he wrote a song _for Bonnaroo_ that ended on a riff from Little Lion Man. Stiles and Derek didn’t have time to write a whole song, but Pompeii was one of the first songs Scott really learned to play.

“So our next one is kinda new and, uh, kinda not,” Stiles says. “We whipped it up on the ride over, so you guys are the first ever to hear it. Hope you like it!”

Lydia immediately starts up the intro to Beacon. It’s in a lower key than usual, but Stiles finds the notes easy enough. “ _Living in a small town/Just another garage band/Can’t believe where we’re standing now/But we want this to last/It’s all happening so fast_.” Then, Lydia bangs out the familiar drumbeat. “ _But if you close your eyes/Does it almost feel like nothing’s changed at all_?”

The audience goes fucking nuts. Stiles throws his arms out like he could hug them all—he wants to hug them all. He wants to break open his chest and let them all in, let in all the sound and the pulse and the light, carry the crackling energy like neon glowing through his ribs. He feels Scott, Derek, and Lydia like they’re all tied to his heart with string—with _wire_ , strong and warm and humming.

Mashing up Beacon and Pompeii goes over fucking amazing. Stiles rides the high to the end of the set. When he’s holding hands with Derek and Lydia and bowing at the end of the show, he feels on top of the goddamn world.

In the hour it takes for Allison to herd them off the premises and into their hastily-booked hotel rooms, Stiles is drooling happily on Derek’s shoulder.

-

The next day, Stiles is loose from a show well done and the prospect of two days of good music and good people. (And good sex. Derek woke him up with his mouth in Stiles’ ass, okay. Life is _good_.) There are some acts that they know and recognize—Bo Burnham is headlining at the Comedy Tent, there are some DJs Scott loves over at the Silent Disco—not to mention the shopping. Lydia buys a bracelet made of wrapped and braided guitar wire. Derek gets an official Bonnaroo tank top (black, of course) with all the acts printed in icy blue on the back. When Scott and Stiles find the ENO tent, they cannot be persuaded to leave until they each purchase a hammock.

Allison even wrangles all of them into getting henna designs by making it into a game; nobody gets to pick their own design. She picks Derek’s, Derek picks Lydia’s, Lydia picks Scott’s, Scott picks Stiles’, and Stiles picks Allison’s. Stiles chooses a crossbow for Allison. “Our protector,” he slurs, because it’s after lunch and he had three beers with his Nutella crepe. It’s not enough to get him drunk, but it’s enough to give him an excuse to act like it. “Our Diana, hunter of killer deals and defender of the young and vulnerable.” He places a sloppy kiss on her temple. She’s beaming.

It turns into an Instagram series. Stiles posts Allison posing like an archer, the crossbow stark on the pale inside of her forearm. Lydia posts Scott grinning delightedly at the tiara of stars and swirls across his forehead. Allison cackles when Derek gets the wolf head design between his pecs and posts it to the official band Instagram. (“Oh, come on, you’re broody and mysterious and hairy, it works!”) Derek picks a dragon for Lydia, and directs its placement so it looks nestled among the roses tattooed on her shoulder. Scott takes his time choosing Stiles’. In the end, he picks the daisy chain choker, “So we can be princesses together.” The Instagram caption reads, _Bonnaroo + Best Friends = Daisy Chain Henna #noyouretheprettiest_.

After, Lydia and Allison find the row of clothing stalls, and Stiles groans. Lydia waves her hand at them without looking. “Go play, boys, we’ll text you when we’re done here.”

Stiles, Scott, and Derek wander around the grounds. Scott has some fun with a group of hula-hoopers. Stiles and Derek hold hands. They go through the Ben & Jerry’s Free Sample tent. Scott jams out at the Silent Disco, where everyone wears headphones and dances to music only they can hear. Stiles and Derek wait for him at one of the smaller stages with a canvas awning. Stiles lies with his head in Derek’s lap, listening to acts that remind him of Johnnyswim and River/Valley.

Derek taps him on the forehead. “The girls want to meet at The Other Tent to watch a few sets.”

“Who’s on over there?” Stiles asks. He’s warm, loose, happy. He’ll move, for his friends, but he wants to know how much _he_ should want to move.

Derek consults his much-creased copy of the schedule. “Reptar is on now. Then The Lost Girls, Walk The Moon…”

“The Lost Girls?” Stiles says.

“I dunno,” says Derek. “I guess they have a similar sound to Reptar and Walk The Moon, if they’re sandwiched in between.”

“Hard place to be, between those two.”

Derek drags his nails across Stiles’ scalp, and Stiles arches a little helplessly into the touch. He glares at Derek, who smiles back. “Don’t you want to see what they’re like, then?”

-

It starts with spoken word poetry.

“ _Started from the bottom now we here is too vague/I will not hide from what the world did to me/I will tell you high school friends lost to serial killers/and group therapy with the few who got away/I will tell you learning how to make a sawed-off shotgun before learning how to drive/I will tell you the crusty-cornered mouths of people who blow thousands on a warm body/ and I will not be ashamed, because a girl’s gotta eat._ ”

The black girl comes out and starts speaking without any preamble—the girl on keys starts a chord with the first word. Another girl walks on, Latina maybe, hitches a bass over her shoulder, and joins the girl on keys. By the time the black girl gets to the end of her stanza, the blonde drummer’s out on stage and building into a heady rhythm. The black girl spins away from her mic and slams down on her guitar. The crowd explodes. The melody is fierce and unapologetic.

Stiles and his band are standing in the back, barely under the shade of the tent, Lydia sitting on Derek’s shoulders so she can see. Stiles is speechless. He thinks he hears Scott whisper, “holy shit.”

The Lost Girls have an electric sound, like Reptar and Walk The Moon—Stiles can see why they were all lined up together—but the girls’ shit is not nearly as happy-go-lucky.

The black girl comes back to the mic and shouts, “What’s up Bonnarooooooooo!” The whole front half is jumping to the beat, and the girls get a raucous cheer. “We are The Lost Girls, and I hope you’re in the right place, cuz this ain’t Neverland.”

The Latina sings into her mic. “ _Girls gotta eat, but the world has teeth, and it’ll gnaw you to the bone if you let it think your eatin’ comes cheap._ ” It’s got more hip-hop in it than Stiles is expecting, but he _loves_ it. “ _Girls gotta eat, and the world has teeth, so crack its bones apart and eat, girls, eat_.”

Stiles grabs Allison’s sleeve and tugs on it like a little kid on his mother’s skirt. She pats his hand. “I know, sweetie, I know. I’ll take care of it.”

The rest of the song goes like that, spoken word for the verses and hip-hop-y vocals for the chorus. The Latina bassist and the girl on keys interact a lot—play leaning into each other, that sort of thing. The drummer wears short shorts and has a large thigh tattoo that, once upon a time, would’ve enticed Stiles to get her into bed. (Or a closet. Or a hallway. He’s not known for subtlety.) She stands at one point, beating her sticks together to show the crowd the clapping pattern she wants, and Stiles sees that the thigh piece looks like claw marks.

They have more energy than Stiles has seen in a while. They never stop moving. They’re very expressive—smug, tough, coy, angry, and exhilarated by turns. The girl on keys wears a green jumpsuit with the sleeves cut off, and the black girl is rocking a fur vest.

They end with a song the whole crowd seems to know, a song Stiles thinks sounds familiar. It’s when they get to the chorus that he recognizes it—he’d heard it on the radio somewhere on tour, had put down his book to listen to it until the end.

“ _I can take, take, take that blow to the brain—and I won’t break, break, break under your hand on my throat—but you best run when I, oh, when I wake—cuz I am Fireheart, baby, and I’ll clog your chest with smoke_.”

Stiles remembers being mad at himself for a whole week that he’d forgotten to whip out his Shazam app, because he never heard that song on the radio again.

-

Behind the stage, after Walk The Moon has started their set, Stiles and Derek meet The Lost Girls. Scott and Lydia are out enjoying the guys’ set; Allison talked to the right people and then left Stiles to it. The black girl is the first one done putting her gear away and stands expectantly with her hands on her hips.

He forces himself to think of press conferences in order to get his fucking hand to extend for a handshake. “Hey,” he says. “I’m Stiles, this is Derek.”

“Braeden,” she says. Her grip is dry and firm. “Nice to meet you both. That’s Caitlin in the wig, Heather in the shorts, and Emily in the green.”

“Awesome,” Stiles says. Up close, he can see the scars on Braeden’s neck. More interesting, he can see how much she’s not trying to cover them up.

“That was a great set you did,” Derek’s saying. “I remember hearing Fireheart on the radio, but the station didn’t say who the artist was.”

Braeden snorts a little. “I didn’t know they were playing it in California,” she says.

“I think we were near Chicago, actually.”

Caitlin stops pretending not to listen and joins the conversation. “When were you guys in Chicago?” she asks, confused.

“On our last tour,” Stiles says. “November, I think.”

Braeden and Caitlin wear matching incredulous expressions. “You heard our song once eight months ago,” Braeden says, “and you still remember it?”

Stiles’ grin comes easier now, and he shrugs. “It’s a good song.”

“You’ve got a good band,” says Derek.

Heather finishes packing up her gear and pops up beside Braeden. “What’s this I hear about compliments?” she says, smirking. Her thigh piece is tattooed to look like the claw marks are revealing purple and green galaxies under her skin. Emily comes over, too, and gives Stiles and Derek a long look. Stiles just then realizes that he has a hand in Derek’s back pocket, and Derek’s finger is a comfortable weight hanging from Stiles’ belt loop. Heather’s still talking to Derek, but Stiles holds Emily’s gaze as she reaches for Caitlin’s hand and slowly, measuredly, laces her fingers between Caitlin’s. Caitlin squeezes back without looking away from Heather and Derek. Stiles winks, and Emily smiles, relieved.

“All the labels we’ve talked to call it _rap_ ,” Braeden is saying. “And while there are similarities, there’s still a distinct difference between rap and spoken word.”

“Sure,” Derek says. “Have you found anyone yet who you feel comfortable signing with?”

“With whom you feel comfortable signing,” Emily corrects. She blushes when everyone turns to look at her. “And, no. Our manager says we’re suicidal, but we self-produced our first album and it did okay.”

Stiles pulls his Sharpie out of his pocket—Allison passed them out at breakfast, in case they ran into fans wanting autographs. “Can I?” he asks, gesturing at Emily’s free arm. She holds it out, and Stiles writes Kira’s office number along the lines of her veins. “This is the number for the head of our label, Vulpine Lupine. Her name’s Kira, she’s really cool. If you decide to give her a call, tell her I sent you.” As he caps the Sharpie, Emily’s cautious smile reminds him of something else. “How is your manager about the…” He nods at Emily and Caitlin’s hands.

“The lesbian and the bisexual in a committed relationship of five years?” Caitlin asks. “Peachy keen, as long as no one ever finds out ever.”

“There are a lot of words like ‘image’ and ‘sellability’ and ‘collective identity’ being thrown around,” Heather says. She crosses her arms, brittle with frustration and old anger.

Stiles feels a terrible, familiar floating sensation tug at his ribs. Derek steps closer into him, moves his hand from Stiles’ belt loop to Stiles’ hip. A few fingers slip under Stiles’ shirt and press gently.

“You can talk to Kira about that, too,” Derek says. “The people you work with when you start out don’t have to be the people you want to work with forever.”

Braeden smirks. “That’s a very tactful way of saying your Kira girl can get us a better manager.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Heather mutters rebelliously.

“Easy there, dudes,” Caitlin says. She pulls Emily closer, so their clasped hands are in front of them and fewer people can see the way she rubs Emily’s forearm soothingly. “Let’s only talk like that when we can afford it. A punk label might not go for our sound.”

Stiles can’t help it; he snorts. “Punk label? Where’d you hear that?”

“Well, I mean.” Heather gestures at Stiles and Derek. “No one knows much about Vulpine Lupine other than the fact that you guys are their claim to fame. Royales is kinda punk, too, and Isaac Lahey was with your band for a while, so that makes sense. But us?”

Stiles bites his tongue on an Isaac Lahey Defense Squad retort—they’d been getting more and more nepotistic comments as Isaac’s music got more attention. Heather, at least, was just being honest.

“Vulpine Lupine isn’t a punk label,” Derek says. “Kira’s more concerned with finding good acts and helping them get their sound out there than with keeping to any one genre.”

Emily looks at the numbers on her arm with new appreciation. Her lips twitch.

Stiles doesn’t know why—Emily’s clearly the balancing agent among the others’ big personalities, the cautious one, shy but valued, damn good on the keys and synthesizer—maybe because she reminds him of Derek?—but he notices her lip-twitch and asks, “What’s funny, gorgeous?”

She smiles at him, small and bright. “They’ve been nagging me to get some ink, even if it’s just a corny butterfly at a crappy parlor. I’ve been saying I’ll do it when the timing’s right, from a well-known artist.” The other girls all relax for a second, rolling their eyes, the way friends react to an old argument. Emily brandishes her arm, grinning. “And I just got _inked_ at Bonnaroo by Stiles Stilinski. HA!” She directs her triumphant laugh at her bandmates, the way Scott does when he’s won a debate.

“Don’t even try,” says Braeden.

“That doesn’t even _count_ ,” Heather says.

“Ink, you said _get some ink_ and I did,” says Emily, speaking over her.

“Babe, stop using your grammar skills against us,” Caitlin says fondly.

“Never!” Emily cries gleefully.

They were holding back onstage, Stiles realizes. They have personas they put on, like any band does, but for some reason one of the things they hold back is how close they really are. They play like friends, but they bicker like sisters.

“Seriously,” Stiles says, and it’s like they all remember he and Derek are standing there, like they didn’t mean to show that facet of their dynamic—their open expressions freeze. “Please call Kira. We’d love to have you in the Vulpine Lupine family.”

-

The headliner that night is Fall Out Boy. Stiles and his band make introductions after the show—Fall Out Boy, this is The Lost Girls, et cetera. They all hang out in the talent craft tent, drinking and talking. Braeden, with little prompting and three tequila shots in her, gives a live demonstration on the difference between rap and spoken word poetry that Patrick loves. Andy and Scott talk tattoos with Emily. Lydia gives Joe her wide-brimmed hipster hat to wear. Pete, Derek, and Caitlin get wrapped up in a lively, not-entirely-comprehensible conversation that Stiles swears has _something_ to do with bass guitars. It’s about at that point that Emily thrusts a phone against Stiles’ ear and he automatically says, “Hello?”

“Hi, Stiles,” says Kira. She’s using her Patient Voice, the one where she’s given up control of a situation and is just riding it out.

“Kira! We found this really cool band, you should totally sign them.”

“So I’ve been told,” says Kira, and oh good, he can hear the smile. “We’ll talk more about it when you guys get home. Good Bonnaroo?”

“Good Bonnaroo!” Stiles says. Fuck, but his voice is shrill. And his hands are in the air. Huh. Whatever. “Gooooooooood Bonnaroo.” Allison, lying with her head in Scott’s lap and apparently listening to his conversation, raises a hand and makes the _rock on_ sign with her fingers.

“Good,” says Kira. “Can you ask Emily to give the phone to Allison?”

“Okay. Emily, do you know Allison? You’ll like Allison. Kira wants Allison.” He points, and Emily goes back to Scott and Andy with a parting kiss to his cheek.

-

And that’s how they sign The Lost Girls.

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics to Beacon were taken from this Tumblr post: http://wearethecyclones.tumblr.com/post/101255963034/haletothewolf-smokes-for-harris-greatest


End file.
